Bedbugs

by Ben H. Winters

  Susan tapped her chin and then tried “Jessie Spender” instead. This time, the first result was a Facebook page for someone named Jess Spender—and this lead, at last, seemed promising. It listed no age or occupation, and the profile picture wasn’t a picture of a person at all—it was an odd-angle photograph of the Williamsburg Clock Tower, with a big handlebar mustache Photoshopped over it. A very cutesie-clever, very Brooklyn kind of profile picture.

  This is her, Susan thought.

  They had no Facebook friends in common, but Jess Spender’s account was set to allow incoming messages from anyone. Even, Susan thought with an uneasy snort of laughter, people living in your old house, who have created a likeness of you and then covered it with some kind of biblical plague.

  She clicked the button that said “Send Jess a message” and typed quickly in all lowercase letters: “hi. if this is the jessica spender that used to live on cranberry street in brooklyn, i have a”

  Susan paused, cracked her knuckles. She was going to write “a quick question for you,” but she didn’t exactly know what her question was.

  What about “how’s your face?” That’s a pretty quick question, right?

  Susan deleted “i have a” and instead wrote “there’s a piece of mail here for you and it looks important. landlady does not have forwarding address.” She signed with her name, her e-mail address, and then, after a brief hesitation, added her cell number as well.

  12.

  “Sue, I have been the worst friend in the world! Do you want to have lunch today? Can you come to the city?”

  It was Friday morning when Susan’s friend Jenna called with the last-minute invitation, and Susan accepted it eagerly. The week had passed in a blur: Each morning Alex grunted some muffled facsimile of “good morning” and left, messenger bag slung over his arm, travel mug of coffee in a one-handed death grip. Marni came and whisked Emma away, leaving Susan alone in the house, melancholy and uneasy, too freaked out by the bonus room to do any painting, or much of anything else.

  “Can we go somewhere with wine?”

  “You bet your sweet ass we can!”

  Jenna was an actress, the rare kind who actually made a living, performing frequently Off Broadway, occasionally on Broadway, and the rest of the time doing TV commercials and voice-overs. She was nice to a fault, a habitual self-deprecator, constantly pooh-poohing her substantial accomplishments and professing astonishment at Susan’s life—at her perfect child, at her gorgeous husband.

  Susan spent the morning in a better mood than she’d felt in days, enjoying a brisk walk to the Gristedes on Henry Street to get flowers for the kitchen table and then taking her time in her closet, selecting the right outfit for lunch. She looked forward to hearing about Jenna’s latest adventures and to sharing with a sympathetic old friend both her excitement and her misgivings about the house on Cranberry Street. Jenna, she knew, would make her see how silly she was being, how lucky she was with her amazing family and their incredible new apartment.

  Susan left the house at 12:30 to meet Jenna at Les Halles at 1:15. The closest A/C station, on High Street, was out of service, so she doubled back toward the stop on Jay Street. This detour took Susan down Livingston, where she walked quickly past the improvised shrine to the Phelps twins: the small forest of white and pink roses, the clutch of woeful wide-eyed teddy bears.

  “Oh my God, how is everyone? How’s Emma?”

  “She’s great, she’s really great. Here … ”

  Susan found the latest pictures on her iPhone, and Jenna leaned across the table to clutch her arm, gasping loudly at each shot. “No! Too cute! Too cute! God, Sue, what an incredible creature she is! I’m serious, I am so in awe of you.”

  “Of me? Come on. What about you? Fran sent me the article from Variety, by the way. About the Lillian Hellman festival.”

  Jenna waved her hands to dismiss any talk of herself and her own accomplishments. “How’s Alex?

  “Oh …” Susan exhaled, took a sip of her Merlot. “He’s fine. Busy.”

  “Good, good. Busy is good, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  There was a long pause. Susan bit her lip, ran a hand through her hair, and looked at her friend; Jenna returned the gaze with wide, empathetic eyes. “God,” Susan said, laughing quietly. “I must look like hell.”

  “You look beautiful, Susan.” Jenna reached across the table and took her hands. Susan and Jenna had been friends for about twelve years, since both dated a guy named William Vasouvian. They’d run into each other at DBA one night, after both were through with him, and bonded over draft beers and stories of what a moron William Vasouvian had turned out to be.

  “What’s going on, Suzaroo?”

  Susan opened her mouth, then shut it again, smiled, shrugged. It was all so ridiculous. Gee willikers! I think my paintbrush is possessed, Jenna! What do I do?

  “Not a big deal,” Susan said instead. “Nothing. I think we might have bedbugs.”

  Jenna let go of her hands.

  “You have to move.” Jenna stared at Susan with an intense, unflinching expression. “I’m serious.”

  A prickly shiver ran through Susan, from the base of her neck to the small of her back; the way Jenna was reacting, it was as if she had said her house was haunted, or confessed that she was painting dark visions from the Other Side. She forced herself to laugh lightly and raised an arch eyebrow in reply. “Jenna, take it easy. I said we might have them. We probably don’t. Besides—”

  “So why did you say that?”

  “Because I … oh, I don’t know. There was this spot on my pillow, and I thought …” She had a powerful memory, of walking through the living room in the silence and darkness, of being watched. She almost said it, almost said, “I felt them watching me,” but then didn’t.

  “Thought what?” Jenna said. “Have you been bitten?”

  “No, Jenna. No.”

  But Jenna was shaking her head emphatically. “You have got to move. Get out of there. I’ll help you pack.”

  “Jenna. Stop. You’re freaking me out.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but you should be freaked out.”

  The waiter set down two green salads with grilled chicken and a basket of bread. “Enjoy, ladies.”

  Jenna kept her eyes locked on Susan. “I mean, you’ve seen the news, right? These things are everywhere. I don’t know what it’s like in Brooklyn, but I have heard so many horror stories. People end up throwing away all their stuff, sleeping on the ground, moving a million times.”

  “Jenna.”

  “I knew this girl, Katie Wilkes, she was in The Weir with me, she was engaged to this guy, and then they got bedbugs, from a secondhand futon, she thinks. Anyway, it caused this huge strain between them. Whole thing fell apart.” Jenna shook her head gravely and stabbed at her salad. Her BlackBerry vibrated on the table; she glanced at it but didn’t answer. Susan wondered fleetingly who was calling Jenna and felt a stab of nostalgia for work, for assignments and deadlines and pay stubs and things to do.

  “OK, Jenna. Thank you. But seriously, like I said, I don’t think it’s bedbugs.”

  Jenna took a bite of her salad. “What does Alex say?”

  Susan took a bite of hers. “He doesn’t think so, either.”

  Jenna sighed, picked up her BlackBerry, and began to scroll through it. “I’m going to give you this number. For this woman named Dana Kaufmann. She’s an exterminator. Pest control, whatever they call it.”

  “Jenna.”

  “My friend Ron, who works at Actor’s Equity, he made everyone put this number in their phones after they found bedbugs backstage at the ATA. Apparently this lady is, like, the exterminator to the stars. She sprayed Maggie Gyllenhaal and Peter Sarsgaard’s house, in Park Slope.”

  “OK.”

  “Will you call her?”

  “If I need to.”

  Jenna let the subject drop, and they passed the rest of the meal more pleasantly, catching up on mutual friends and b
ooks each had recently read. Jenna said she would come out for a visit soon, and Susan promised to see the show she’d just started rehearsing, a new musical by Tom Kitt, one of the guys who wrote Next to Normal. Jenna said what she always said, which was, “Oh, you don’t have to do that. You’re so busy …”

  When they were hugging goodbye, Jenna clutched her tighter than usual and then drew back and looked her in the eyes.

  “Oh, and perfect little Emma,” she said, her voice an urgent whisper. “I’m serious, Sue. If it is bedbugs, you have got to move!”

  Susan took the 2 train back, so she could avoid the creepy shrine on Livingston Street. When she got home it was 1:45 in the afternoon; Emma would be upstairs, already napping, and Marni would be inside, sprawled on the sofa, reading or taking a nap of her own. Susan stood outside the house with her hands on her hips, staring up at the dark shape of the house against the sky, in just the posture she had discovered Andrea in the other day. When she was about to climb the steps to go inside, the red front door swung open, and Louis emerged at the top of the stoop, whistling lightly and carrying a hammer in one hand. When he saw her, he stopped and squinted, as if taking a moment to remember who she was, before calling out a greeting.

  “Well, hello there, Susan. How ya doin’?”

  As he trotted down the stoop toward her, Susan stayed put, glancing at the little door beneath the steps.

  “Louis, can I ask you a question?”

  The old man stopped at the bottom of the steps and smiled. “Sure thing.”

  “Has Andrea ever had bedbugs?”

  Louis came down the last step, and they were both on the sidewalk now, at the foot of the stoop. He leaned his bulk against the short wrought-iron fence and scratched his big bald head.

  “No. No, I don’t believe she has,” he said slowly. “Not that I know of, anyway And if anyone would know, it’s me.”

  “And what about the previous tenants. Jessica Spender, and whatever his name.”

  “Jack. That fella’s name was Jack Barnum. I remember it, because it’s like the circus, you know. Barnum. My kids always loved the circus. When they were little we used to take ’em to the Midtown Tunnel in the middle of the night, to watch ’em bring the elephants across. You ever do that?”

  “No. But, Louis—Jessica and Jack, did they have bedbugs?”

  “Nope. Boy, those kids didn’t need ’em, though. They had plenty of other problems.” Louis shifted his weight, bobbled the hammer in his palm. “Why you asking all this? You think you might have a problem?”

  “No. No, I’m just—you know, it’s in the news and all.”

  “Sure.”

  They stood in silence for a minute, and then Louis nodded and stood up. “All right. You take care now.”

  He began to amble down the street, but Susan wasn’t ready to go inside.

  “Louis?”

  He stopped on the sidewalk and turned back toward her; cheerful still, happy to help, but puzzled, maybe just the slightest bit put out. A man ready to proceed with his day.

  “Yes?”

  I should ask him to fix the broken floorboard, Susan thought. And the faucet, and the light-switch cover. When she gave Andrea her inventory of complaints last weekend, the landlady hadn’t written any of it down, and Susan suddenly felt sure she’d never actually mentioned it to Louis.

  Instead she found herself asking, “What’s in the basement, Louis?”

  Louis’s gaze hardened. “Look, now. I already apologized for scaring your girl.”

  “I know. I’m just curious.”

  “Curious, huh?” He stared at her, taking her measure, and Susan thought he might just walk away. But then he shrugged and walked back over to where she was standing, spoke in a low, careful voice. “This is between you and me, understand?”

  She nodded.

  “Strictly between you and me. Now, like I said, Howard killed himself before his blood could kill him first. What I didn’t tell you, what I didn’t want to tell you, but since you’re asking.… ”

  He leaned in, and Susan did, too; their foreheads were nearly touching. “He did it here in the house. Right down in the basement, real late one night.”

  “Jesus.”

  Louis straightened up and glanced over his shoulder at Andrea’s dark first-floor window, before continuing in an urgent whisper. “This is all part of … part of why I’m a little concerned about Andrea, see. After it was over, you know, she never … never let anyone go down there and, you know, tidy up. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a gunshot wound to the head, what happens to the wall, the floor … ”

  Susan grimaced. She was feeling warm and tired, the wine from lunch catching up with her.

  “Most I could do, after they came and took his body away, before she shooed me off, was put the damn hunting rifle back in its trunk. Figured at least get the thing out of sight, so it wasn’t hanging around taunting her whenever she went down there for a roll of paper towels. Rest of the basement’s just as it was on the day, so far as I know. Goddamn horror show, pardon my language.”

  “What do you mean, so far as you know? You never—”

  Louis shook his head. “She won’t let me down there. Because she knows if I do go down there, I’m gonna get down on my hands and knees and clean up what poor Howard did to himself. It just isn’t right, leaving a scene like that. Like it’s some kind of death museum.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah. Now, look, Susan. We’re keeping this between you and me? Understand?”

  “Sure. Of course.”

  Louis was smiling again, but there was coldness behind his smile, and force. It was not a request.

  13.

  The thundercloud that had hung low and heavy all week over Susan and Alex’s marriage erupted with ferocity on Sunday night, just after Alex came down from putting Emma to sleep. Though he’d already had two beers with dinner, Alex went straight to the fridge, opened a third, and drank half of it in one long swallow. Susan, at the kitchen table finishing her dinner of salad and sliced roast beef, looked up and said—simply, casually—“Thirsty?” It was the kind of little bantering tease that would normally earn a comical assent (“As a matter of fact I am!”) or, at worst, a dismissive and weary, “Ha, ha.” But Alex, sullen and discontented as he’d been for days, stared back at her, bottleneck gripped tightly in his fist, and said, “What? What’s the problem?”

  Susan pushed her chair away from the table. He was spoiling for a fight, and Susan, in her own dark and unsettled frame of mind, found herself itching to give him one.

  “What’s my problem? Come on, Al. Something’s making you all pissy, but guess what? You share your life with another person. Two people, in fact.”

  He made a sour face. “You don’t have to tell me that.”

  Susan’s steak knife trembled slightly in her grip. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Nothing.” He exhaled, turned his face away from her and gazed down into the sink. “I’m just anxious about money. I have to write the rent check, and it’s going to be a tough one.”

  “Oh.”

  As soon as he softened, Susan relaxed, too. This was all she wanted, for Alex to open up, to share what was eating him, instead of moping around like a human black cloud. Now she could do what spouses did, say all the right things about how it was going to be OK, how they were a team, how they could figure it out together.

  But just as she said “Alex …,” he turned back around and said the magic words: “Especially since you’re not working right now.… ”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Susan said sharply, tossing the steak knife onto her plate with a clatter. Over the baby monitor, Emma made a discontented moan in her sleep.

  “What?” said Alex, with obnoxiously exaggerated innocence.

  “I am just so sick of hearing you say that.”

  “Why? You were the one who decided to stop working.”

  “It wasn’t unilateral. We talked about it a thousand times.
”

  “Exactly. You talked me into submission.”

  Susan’s jaw dropped. She felt like she’d been punched in the stomach. “And, by the way,” Alex continued, jabbing his finger at her, his nostrils flaring, “You were the one who decided that we needed to spend several thousand dollars to move. To move to a more expensive apartment … ”

  “OK, well, once again, I didn’t decide anything by myself.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “You agreed with me!”

  “I went along with you.”

  Susan snorted. “Please.”

  Alex shook his head angrily. She could see him building steam, convincing himself of the accuracy of his own memory. She felt aware of how much bigger he was than her, of his thick torso and big arms. “No, I did, I went along with you. I knew it was a stupid idea, but I gave in. That’s different from agreeing.”

  “That’s not fair, Alex. It’s not fair and you know it.”

  All the while an accusing voice was chattering in the back of Susan’s mind, an insistent and taunting whisper: he’s right, he’s right, of course he’s right. It was Susan who had dragged them from their cozy nest off Union Square, it was Susan who saddled them with this new burden, with this new apartment—which, by the way, she thought crazily, is very possibly haunted and/or infested with—

  She shook her head violently, wrestled her mind back under her control.

  “So your business is tanking?” His eyes widened, and she liked it; she liked to see that she’d wounded him. “So I’ll get a job! I’ll go to a firm. I’ll be making three times as much as you by next week.”

  “Great. And then you’ll be wandering around here whining, every night, how miserable you are … how hard things are for you …”

  “Oh, like you’ve been doing for the last two weeks?”

  The fight carried on for hours, the kind of interminable and miserable argument that would peter out into brutalized silence, then flare suddenly back to life, worse than before—another round of recriminations and accusations, snorts of derision, unrelated grievances dragged out to be aired and re-aired. When they fought this way, Susan imagined them as two mad and vicious dogs, tearing at each other’s throats, charged with pure animal hatred. Later, lying awake, her heart pounding and her chest trembling from the exertion, Susan thought that without question it was the worst fight in the history of their marriage, the worst since they had known each other.